


Precious

by topdollarwitch



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Baby's First Vic Fic, Baby's First Victuuri, Frottage, I grew......to love vic writing this..........., Is this????? a character study ??????, M/M, The Sad Vic, Young Victor Nikiforov, it has been a MINUTE since i wrote anything i'm so sorry that this is shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 22:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17610299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topdollarwitch/pseuds/topdollarwitch
Summary: A collection of birthdays. Victor stuff.





	Precious

_Twelve_

 

        At the arrivals gate, Grand-mère stood out from the sea of parkas and pea coats like a parrot among pigeons, to Victor’s relief. She did not smile, but pursed her burgundy lips and flapped a glittering hand in a gesture close to beckoning when she spotted him.

 

        “What did they serve?”

 

        “Borscht, a rice thing, ice cream later on. It was okay.”

 

        She tutted as she walked. Victor was the same height as his grandmother, but somehow had trouble keeping up. His small suitcase jostled and bumped behind him.

 

        “Next time I’ll have them put you on Air France. God above, what were they thinking. _Aeroflot_. Did they want you to end up in the Alps?”

 

        At the taxi stand, she hustled herself to the front of the line and stepped right into the parking lane. In a minute Victor’s luggage was safely tucked in the trunk and they were pulling out of the airport, Grand-mère directing the driver onto this exit, not that one, we won’t be taken for a tour of the country.

 

        Victor had tucked a cookie from the flight into the pocket of his coat. It was mostly crumbled in its wrapper by now. Victor opened it at the corner and carefully tipped the crumbs into his mouth as the car swayed onto a roundabout.

 

        “Look at you, thin as a rail. You’re going to shoot up like a beanstalk in a few years, no doubt. Is that good or bad for the skating? I imagine it can’t be good, ballerinos lose their center of gravity and you’re practically doing the same, just with blades on your feet...”

 

        At his aunt’s house, Victor didn’t even have time to take off his coat before he was shuffled into the guest room where all his cousins were gathered. They looked up from their Gameboys long enough to say hello, and then Victor was left to pick through the room and seat himself on the couch. A dog show was playing on TV. The littlest one, who Victor only knew from Christmas cards and couldn’t for the life of him remember the name of, sat herself next to him. She did not have a Gameboy, but rather a sticky doll clutched to her chest.

 

        “Can you speak French? Maman said you’re a foreigner.” She stroked the doll’s tangled hair. There were splotches of chocolate on her chin.

 

        “Yes, my mother’s French. We talk in French at home.”

 

        “Do you like puppies?”

 

        “Yes.”

 

        They watched the muted dog show together until dinnertime.

 

        On Christmas Eve, Grand-mère brought Victor to a department store to pick out his birthday present. His mother had already sent over a number of presents for him to give out the next day. Victor couldn’t remember the last time he gave someone a Christmas present.  _In France, they give presents on Christmas.’_

 

        He couldn’t remember the last time he had received something besides money for his birthday. He thought birthday presents were supposed to be a surprise, but Grand-mère insisted that it’s better to pick one out for oneself, because others usually just get you useless crap. They passed shops with scarves and soft leather gloves, shops with watches and heavy books. Victor liked to read, and he didn’t have many books in French. He stopped to hover over a display of classic re-prints.

 

        “Oh Victor, you can get books anywhere. Don’t you want something nice to wear?” Grand-mère’s use of his full given name made always caught Victor off-guard, and it took him a second to regain his train of thought.

 

        “I like reading books. I have a lot of clothes.” He did, his mother told him it was gauche to wear the same suit twice in front of the cameras. He always had a new suit for each skating event.

 

        “Fine, but I want to get you something nice that you won’t grow out of in six months.”

 

        Victor picked out a hardcover edition of  _Gulliver’s Travels_ , and Grand-mère picked out a watch for him. It was heavy and had a deep brown leather band. As they wound their way through busy walkways, Victor couldn’t stop unclasping it and pressing the back of the band to his face, inhaling the heady smell of leather. Grand-mère wanted to buy some before-dinner  _apéritifs,_ and directed them to the basement level where bread and cheese and meats and wines of all types were sold.

 

        Victor felt like he was in a dream, floating along through the aisles with the current of bustling store goers as if in a river. In St. Petersburg, they almost never shopped for groceries. Maman disliked crowds, and didn’t cook herself much anyway. They got takeout from the shop down the road, or the au pair Elena cooked for them. Grand-mère said to just take whatever he wanted to eat, and so Victor did. He chose a soft, fragrant cheese with herbs in it that the shopkeeper let him taste on a cracker, and cured meat with olives stuck in it, and _pâté de foie_ , because he had heard the name in a book and thought he should try it. Grand-mère bought wine and hard bread and olives.

 

        After Christmas dinner, Victor’s aunt brought out a chocolate birthday cake and they all sang to him. His cousins asked him what his birthday wish was. He didn’t know he was supposed to make one. He finally decided on wishing for his hair to grow quickly, because he didn’t like the haircut he had gotten just before coming to France.

 

        “Aren’t you going to wish for a gold medal or something?” said Antoine, around a bite of cake.

 

        “Oh, I suppose that too.” said Victor, although he didn’t really feel the need.

 

        Victor returned to St. Petersburg on New Year’s Eve to find his father’s study a drafty, empty room. He had moved to Moscow. Maman told him over her shoulder as she picked out the nice china from the dining room cupboard, as if commenting on the weather. Victor’s younger sister, Anna, didn’t come down from her room all day. Elena brought her up a plate for dinner.

 

        Victor ate New Year’s dinner at one end of the big dining room table with Maman and Elena. Maman drank too much wine and asked Victor whether or not his aunt had gotten fat. Elena put her to bed, and then stayed up with Victor to watch the countdown on TV. He wondered where father was in Moscow. Maybe he was at the Red Square to see the fireworks. The camera moved too fast over the bundled-up crowd.

 

        “Was it Tanya?” he asked. Tanya was father’s secretary. She dropped him off sometimes in her car when he went out to dinner with the office.

 

        “I don’t know, Vitya. Yes. Maybe.” Elena was curled on the sofa and finishing off the second bottle of Chardonnay that Maman had opened. Her cheeks were flushed and she was stifling hiccups into the sleeve of her sweater. “Don’t tell your mother I said that.”

 

        “I won’t.”

 

_Fifteen_

 

        Victor and Denis had gotten into a fight, and so Victor and Makkachin were taking a walk. The afternoon air was frigid and still, and Makka’s breath puffed up from him like a steam engine as he sauntered down the sidewalk. Victor felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was probably Anna, telling him to come on home. He ignored it.

 

        That morning he and Anna had practiced French braiding each other’s hair, and he had decided to finish the look off with blush and mascara from maman’s room. He called through the closed door to Anna, _It’s my birthday, after all. No gayer day!’,_ and she had clapped when he emerged and did a dramatic pirouette in the hall. He thought it was funny, more than anything, and liked seeing his sister’s reaction. He had forgotten about it as the day went by.

 

        Halfway through dinner, Denis had squinted at him from across the table. Apparently it was vodka cup number three that rendered his eyesight improved.

 

        “Is that your performance makeup?” he started. Maman paused, but didn’t look up, her fork hovering above her noodles. They had gotten take-out from Victor’s favorite Chinese downtown.

 

        “No, it’s Maman’s.”

 

        “The hell are you doing taking her makeup?”

 

        As though an ON switch had been flipped somewhere on her back, their mother raised her head and gave a quick sigh, her mouth fighting to quirk up into a smile. “It’s fine honey, I don’t mind--”

 

        “You don’t mind that your son is barely fifteen and acting like a tramp?”

 

        Victor snorted at the word “tramp”, which did not help him at all.

 

        “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Vitya. After that shit in the car the other day…”

 

        “I was saying goodbye to my friends.” said Victor, sitting up straight and reaching across for another spoonful of shrimp. He was careful to keep his face neutral.

 

        _“Saying goodbye.”_ Denis muttered, shaking his head and reaching for the bottle in the middle of the table.

 

        “What did you do?” Anna asked, suddenly curious.

 

        “I said goodbye to my rinkmates after practice, that’s all.” Victor said, his voice light. “With kisses. Like I do with Makka.” He arched back in his chair and blew a kiss to the dog, who scrambled to his feet to snap at the air, as though catching it. Anna cackled delight as Victor winked at her. “I kissed to them from the window.”

 

        “Russian, dammit, speak in Russian at the table.” Denis growled, and set the vodka bottle down with a _thud_ that made Makka _ruff_ at him.

 

        For the first time, Victor turned fully to his stepfather, all laughter gone from his eyes.

 

        “It’s my birthday, I’ll speak whatever language I like.”

 

        That was when it had turned into a fight, probably.  When he felt his face start to get hot, Victor left.

 

        He usually let Makka lead the way when they went on walks, and since Makka liked to dig holes in the sand and bark at the seagulls, they usually ended up at the seaside. Victor undid the lead and sat on a concrete step, watching Makka tear down across the sand and into the middle of a flock of birds.

 

        Victor thought about calling his father, spending the weekend in Moscow. But the train ride would probably be the best part. He supposed he could _maybe_ talk father into taking him to the ballet...but on such short notice…

 

        Makka raced back and forth and snapped at birds, and Victor thought he should have brought a book. He didn’t like being left to think when he was irritated. He didn’t like being irritated, at all.

 

        On the way back, a car full of young men hollered at Victor from the road. They thought he was a girl. Lately, he was able to trick people into thinking he was a girl from time to time. It was amusing. Sometimes, he would just smile instead of replying to people, to keep up the illusion. That was another thing that really set Denis off.

 

        Victor smiled at them.

 

        Practice didn’t start up again until after the New Year. It was too long. Victor was not good at taking breaks. He lay on his bed and went through choreography, or jogged and thought about choreography, or slept. He could sleep all day, sometimes.

 

        When he felt himself again, he returned home.

 

_Eighteen_

 

        Victor received a text message a week before, _“ Come to St. Moritz.”_

 

        And, a few minutes later, _I’ll treat you.”,_ which Victor thought was very funny coming from a sixteen-year-old.

 

        _Are you going to wine and dine me like a sponsor? Should I bring something nice to wear?”_

 

_"You should always bring something nice to wear for me.”_

 

        Christophe Giacometti was bold, if anything.

 

        Victor’s flight was booked twenty minutes later.

 

        Victor had met Chris two years previously, in Turin. He had surprised the flushed boy by speaking to him in French, and then left him further speechless by handing him a rose from the bouquet he had been holding. The next year, at Worlds, the boy had grown about a foot in height and a mile in gall. Chris was endearing, and quick-witted, and said the things that Victor found himself usually too apathetic to say.

 

        Like that, they became friends.

 

        Victor had not had a friend like Chris before. He had sipped vodka mixed with juice with other skaters in hotel rooms. He joked at practices with his rinkmates. But he had never stayed up all night with anyone just talking in the dark, splayed out at opposite sides of the hotel bed. He had never snuck out for fast food, or to get a bottle of wine, in the middle of the night after a competition. They pulled girls laughing onto the dance floor at banquets and received matching reprimands from their coaches.

 

        Chris was both a rush and a warm embrace in one.

 

        At the Grand Prix Final three weeks previous, they had nicked a bottle of champagne from the banquet and continued to drink on Victor’s bed, to celebrate his Gold. When the laughter died and they were about to fall asleep, Chris rolled over to face Victor.

 

        “I want to kiss you.”

 

        “...kiss me, then.”

 

        “I can’t see you.”

 

        Victor remembered then that Chris had taken his contacts out when they came into the room. Victor would have laughed, if he weren’t so sleepy. Instead he scooted closer and pressed his mouth into Chris’s. It really was a lame kiss, Victor later thought.

 

        “I’m so sleepy. Kiss me in the morning, Chris.”

 

        Chris had laughed at that. The next morning Victor woke up to find Chris’s arm thrown across his stomach and drool in his hair.

 

        At the elevator, Victor chirped, “You forgot to kiss me this morning.”

 

        Chris smiled, and he was so handsome. They came together only for a moment and then jerked apart, because the elevator dinged right then. They both were very red the whole ride down.

 

        After that though, texting had been the same as always. Chris flirted sometimes, but he always flirted. Victor had always flirted back.

 

        Victor wondered what he would find in St. Moritz. The morning of his flight, he braided his hair, brushed it out, pulled it back, then let it fall down again. He looked at himself in the mirror on the back of his bedroom door for an hour. He felt like he was seeing himself from behind a screen, like he had pulled a sheet of chiffon tight over his face. He said goodbye to Makkachin three times, and almost missed his cab to the airport.

 

        Chris lived with his grandmother in a tall, thin townhouse. His parents lived in northern Italy, and Chris visited them often. _‘I’ll take you to visit them sometime, we have a house by Lake Cuomo.’_ Chris liked to travel, and had a lot of pictures on his laptop of him at various landmarks throughout Europe. Victor had been to many of these places as well, for competitions, yet he rarely ended up seeing the city. He was usually practicing choreography in his room, or in the hotel restaurant for an interview, or sleeping.

 

        They ate at a dark restaurant with a white linen and candle on the table top.

 

        Victor covered his face with his hands as they sat down. “This is romantic, Chris.”

 

        “I know. Isn’t it absurd?” said Chris, opening the wine list with a flourish.

 

        They got drunk on merlot and laughed too loud, then laughed even louder at the looks they received. They ordered everything that looked good to them. Victor tried _foie gras_ for the first time. As they ate dessert, Chris caught his eye and said, “Happy birthday, Victor. Vic.  _Vitya._ ” He imitated Yakov terribly.

 

        “Thank you, Christophe.” Victor licked the chocolate frosting off his fork, noticed Chris was watching him, and licked it again, slower. He reveled in the way Chris went red all the way to his ears.

 

        They walked through the streets shoulder-to-shoulder, babbling about nothing. Chris kissed him against the side of a building, and in the liquor aisle of a twenty-four-hour shop, and again in a dark corner of a hookah bar. Victor tried to blow smoke out the way he’d seen women do in old movies, and tried to remember to show his neck, but he was too drunk and ended up hiccuping with laughter every time. Chris kissed him just the same.

 

        _“Shh, Mémère!”_ Victor whispered as they climbed the stairs to Chris’s room.

 

        “She could sleep through an earthquake.” Chris replied, pulling him by the hand.

 

        Victor caught a look at himself in Chris’s mirror as he straddled him, his skin blue-white in the light from the window. His hair was almost waist-length. Chris couldn’t stop running his hands through it. Victor yanked Chris’s briefs down and stroked him slowly, grinding his own  clothed erection against his leg.

 

        “I didn’t know if you liked me back. I was so worried.” Chris mumbled, closing his eyes as Victor squeezed him. He was running his hands up and down Victor’s thighs.

 

        Victor looked back in the mirror, watched his own hips gyrate. He could come this way, he thought.

 

        They kissed and grasped at each other and finally found a rhythm, Chris’s hand fisting their cocks together. Victor leaned forward, his hair like a veil around them. There was nothing but puffing hot breath and wetness and the feeling of heat building in Victor’s stomach. Chris was saying things to him in Italian, and Victor was too far gone to laugh. They came together like that, and Chris whispered into Victor’s hair until he fell asleep.

 

_Twenty-one_

 

        “I can’t believe Yakov’s letting you skate in these.” said Maman, peering at the boot she was holding before her as if it had sprouted ears. She ran her thumb over the initials engraved in the gold blade, and shook her head.

 

        “They’re lovely, aren’t they?” Victor leaned down to press a kiss into his mother’s cheek as he walked by. “The boots are Graf, the blades are by a local metalworker.”

 

        “We’ll see what the press thinks.” she sighed as she sat down.

 

        “Screw the press.” said Victor airily, pulling his own chair out.

 

        His mother shot him a look which he chose to ignore.

 

        Makkachin settled himself sitting between the two chairs, tongue lolling as he gazed delightedly back and forth between the two of them.

 

        “Look at this. A son, cooking for his mother, on his birthday.” Maman laughed into her glass. “Surely you want to be having fun with your friends. And when did you learn to cook, anyway?”

 

        “I’d like nothing more than to be here with you, Maman.” Victor smiled quickly. “So what do you think of the place?”

 

        His mother glanced around the kitchen, from the stainless steel countertops to the high ceiling. “It’s great, sweetie. That bathtub is something. I’m sure Makka likes it better here than in the other place you were staying.”

 

        “Yeah, he has more room here than at the studio.”

 

        The dog thumped his tail on the hardwood.

 

        Four hours later, the ceiling was spinning and Makka was whining from the other side of the bathroom door. Victor felt so dizzy, he didn’t think he could get out of the water. He could barely lift his arm to the weeping bottle sitting on the edge of the tub. Under the water he squeezed the undersides of his thighs, his buttocks, ran his hands up his sides. He drummed his index fingers against each individual rib, like a child plucking at the keys of a piano.

 

        With effort, he ran a hand through the short, damp hair on the nape of his neck. Makka whined again.

 

        _“Alright. Anything for you, my love.”_ Victor mumbled.

 

        Twenty minutes later he lay on top of his duvet wet, and wondered if the boy from Goyang could speak English. He had said Victor’s name, but he couldn’t remember him saying much else. He didn’t think he ever got his number, anyway.

 

        Makkachin nosed at his hand until he opened it, then licked his palm.

 

        “Don’t dote on me, Makka. Don’t you fucking dote on me.”

 

        Victor felt as cold and heavy as a slab of marble. Part of him hoped he would catch a cold, and then instead of competing in the Olympics he would be on this bed, and they would report  _‘Men’s Skating Forerunner Victor Nikiforov Out Due To Common Cold’._ That would be a good one. There could be a picture, Victor in bed under ten blankets, barely visible save the top of his head and middle finger saluting high above.

 

        He eventually fell asleep.

  


_Twenty-seven_

 

        Victor awoke steaming hot and feeling as if his mouth was stuffed with cotton. He was wedged between two very warm and very asleep bodies. His head was pounding. He pushed the duvet up, and the cool air that rushed in was heavenly on his damp skin. He lay like that for a while. He wondered where his phone was.

 

        After some consideration, he kicked Chris. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

 

        Chris groaned and turned over, pulling the duvet with him. Makka made a discontented sound and stretched his legs in front of him, tongue curling in a yawn. Silence fell once more. Victor poked Chris in the back.

 

        “It’s not till afternoon.”

 

        “It’s twelve thirty.” Victor hoisted himself over the dog ( _‘So sorry, love.’_ ) and padded to the window. Light flooded the room.

 

        “Oh, fuck you.”

 

        Forty-five minutes later, Chris was sipping a tiny cup of espresso against the kitchen table as if it were the counter of a cafe back in Bergamo. A mere towel draped around his waist, he seemed impervious to the chill coming from the bay window behind him. His radiant silhouette was juxtaposed almost comically against the city of empty bottles before him.

 

        “We should look that boy up.” Chris’s eyebrows danced mischievously. “He probably at least has Facebook.”

 

        “What boy?” asked Victor, concentrating on buttering the toast in front of him. He couldn’t remember much of the conversations he’d had the previous night. He remembered thanking people he barely knew for coming to his birthday party, and dancing with Chris and some girls from the rink in the bedroom.

 

        “Katsuki, the Japanese boy. The pole dancer. _Ass of an angel._ ” Chris hummed, and Victor felt like a hot coal had been dropped into his stomach. He stared at the butter knife in his hand, and wondered exactly how much he had said.

 

        “He’s friends with Phichit Chulanont, I think they train together.” Chris went on, picking up his phone. “Let’s see...Christ, this kid takes a lot of selfies…”

 

        Victor hastily  _snapped_ the lid back on the butter. “He doesn’t have Facebook, or Instagram, or whatever. I already looked. Or at least, I couldn’t find him.

 

        “Ahh, of course.” Chris snorted as Victor set the plate of toast between them. They sat for a minute in silence, Chris peering down at his phone over the rims of his glasses and Victor peering down in disinterest at his untouched toast.

 

        “What did I say?” Somehow, this was worse than all the times he had gotten drunk and smarted off to a sponsor at a banquet, or gotten drunk and picked a fight with Chris for no reason, or gotten drunk and started crying in the middle of an innocuous conversation. He _had fun_ that night.

 

        But Yuuri had never texted him.

 

        “Just that he never texted you.” Chris took a bite of toast. “And oh, it’s the end of your life. Victor Nikiforov can finally say he has _one who got away!”_

 

        “Fuck off. He’s cute. And anyway, I was drunk--”

 

        “Oh, here we go. He isn’t tagged, though.” Chris slid his phone across the polished granite to bump against Victor’s plate. The photo appeared to have been taken in a shopping center, with high ceilings and fluorescent lights apparent in the background. Yuuri and Phichit were posing  in front of a red bin marked _$1”_ filled with Christmas decorations. Phichit had a plastic angel on his head, Yuuri had his eyes closed. It was a year old. Victor pushed Chris’s phone back hastily.

        “Honestly, you know how I am when I’m drunk. I’ll be crying over someone else next week.” Victor ignored the smirk he was receiving and began tearing off his crusts. It turned into a low chuckle as Victor busied himself with making Makka _sit_ before handing the crusts down.

 

        Thirty minutes later, Chris caught Victor’s eye in the bedroom mirror as he buttoned up his shirt.

 

        “Come to Bali.”

 

        Victor held his gaze. Chris winked, and Victor remembered the boy he had met almost ten years ago.

 

        “Okay.”

 

        The beach was beautiful, the villa right up against it was like a dream, and alcohol was aplenty. Victor could not have asked for more. Chris’s friends were not strangers to him, he’d met most of them at parties and on trips to Ibiza, Cuomo, the French Riviera. He knew them by name, but couldn’t say he’d ever had a conversation with any of them.

 

        They wandered from hut to hut along the beach at night and drank with whoever caught their attention, and slept in on white linen sheets until mid-afternoon. The others talked about graduate school, internships, start-up companies, who was marrying who, who was cheating on who, who was on opiates, who was going to what festival next spring. Victor found himself more interested in the little fishes alongside the boat, or the trinkets being peddled on the beach, or his phone.

 

        When he was bored enough he slapped a _Sochi 2014_ band around his wrist, thickened his accent, and dragged Chris into clubs and onto yachts. They fucked in the villa shower, in the pantry on a boat where everyone had to wear white, in a club toilet high out of their minds. Anna texted him a grainy photo from _Zhizn_ of himself and Chris lounging on the deck of a sailboat in their swim trunks. A bottle of vodka near his foot was circled in red. _All Play and No Work? Russia’s Golden Boy Nikiforov Spotted Partying in Bali’._

 

 _'How’s Makka?’_ , Victor texted back.

 

        Despite it all, he thought a lot about Yuuri Katsuki. He thought about how cute he had been, with his red cheeks and hiccupping laughter. He was more than cute, he was _precious._ He thought about how Yuuri had felt slumped against his chest, his damp hand loosely wrapped around Victor’s wrist, hot face mashed into his neck. In his hotel room, right before falling asleep, Yuuri had mumbled,  _‘Please stay by me.’_. Victor had until he fell asleep.

        There was a notepad on the desk, and Victor had written his number on it. And then there was nothing.

 

        On their last night in Bali, Victor lay hungover on the bed and stared at the wicker fan turning lazily above. Chris was turned on his side, his shoulder jutting like a partition between them, absorbed in his phone. Victor wasn’t dumb, he had caught a glimpse of a farewell message on Chris’s screen as they were taxi-ing the runway in St. Petersburg. Chris wasn’t dumb either, he had enabled messages to be viewable on lock for a reason. Victor wondered why Chris didn’t tell him outright. He had never shied away before. They had always told each other everything.

 

        Victor closed his eyes and worked through his routines.

 

_Twenty-Eight_

 

        “This is weird.” Yuuri proclaimed, holding a second heaping spoon of rice to his already-full mouth “This rice is weird.”

 

        “You seem to tolerate it.” Victor said, grinning. He couldn’t stop grinning. Not when he was watching Yuuri eat. Or stomp the snow off his feet on the doormat. Or mumble things in baby Japanese to Makka. Or awkwardly stumble through his order at the coffee shop down the road.

 

        “I’ll need to ask mom to send me a care package. Let’s see, real rice, _dashi_ , miso…panko, I’ll make you  _katsudon_ …”

 

        Victor had requested they stay in for the night. Firstly, because Yuuri had just arrived in the morning and would surely be tired (though he did not appear to be; quite the opposite in fact.) And secondly, because it was Victor’s birthday and that entitled him to requests.

 

        Yuuri’s foot was resting on the bottom rung of Victor’s stool. Victor shifted to mirror his position, rubbing their thighs together in the process. He delighted in the way Yuuri blushed and rocked in his chair.

 

        “I’ll never be able to eat here if you always do this.” Victor took it as a challenge, and ran his hand from calf to thigh.

 

        “ _Dame!_ We’re eating!” Yuuri play-slapped his hand away, and turned to attack his food. Victor could see him smiling into his take-out carton.

 

        Although they had agreed not to do presents, Yuuri still produced from his suitcase a small mountain of snacks and souvenirs, as well as a hand-drawn birthday card from the Nishigori triplets and a bottle of sake from Minako.

 

        “It’s funny, I never really looked forward to Christmas.” Yuuri said, shifting to finally lean flush against Victor on the couch. He was on his third cup of sake. “It’s kind of a couples holiday in Japan. This is the first time…”

 

        “You’ve had a boyfriend?” Victor offered.

 

        “Don’t make me sound like such a loser.” Yuuri flopped his head against the back of the couch, and Victor seized the opportunity to kiss the juncture of his shoulder and neck, his Adam’s apple, right under his ear.

 

        “God, I missed you.” he breathed.

 

        Victor had never understood the term _driven mad_ in regards to lust. He had been excited by lovers, even elated. He had felt a chill the first time Chris cupped his face, and a thrill when he did the same to others. He had closed his eyes during sex and attempted to _just feel_ , like he had read about and supposed he should do, but when he did that he always ended up bored.

 

        The way Yuuri held Victor’s gaze as he rode him, or as he rolled his lips over the head of his cock, or as he threaded his hands through his hair as Victor returned the favor...Victor could go mad.

 

        “Vic, please...please…” Yuuri was close to whining, legs pushed up to his heaving chest and cock straining between them. Victor continued to slowly pump his fingers in and out, but ran his other hand down Yuuri’s stomach to grasp him, ever so lightly.

 

        “No, no.” Yuuri panted, and all but snatched Victor’s hand off of him. He pulled it up and sucked two fingers into his mouth, mimicking the rhythm Victor had set with his other hand. Yuuri began rolling his hips in time, and Victor realized, _he could go mad._ Yuuri was trying to make him mad.

 

        He had figured, before their relationship had become intimate, that Yuuri would require _care_. Patience, gentle probing, conversations about limits, all of it. He was even excited for these experiences. Yuuri blushed when he held his hand in public, hid his face when he was kissed on the cheek. For the first time in his life, Victor was happy to give his time. After all, Yuuri was  _precious_.

 

        That first night in Beijing, Victor had stopped at his hotel door and turned, unsure of how to proceed. He found a Yuuri he had only seen in fleeting glimpses from across the ice now standing before him.

 

        “Can I come in?” Yuuri had said quietly. He held Victor’s gaze, despite the flush creeping to his ears.

 

        Victor had hardly been out of his coat before he was pushed onto the loveseat, straddled, and asked an inch from his face if _it’s okay if I kiss you again, sorry, I just really want to, I think you want to too,_ and then deeply kissed.

 

        The same Yuuri was currently groaning and all but fucking himself on Victor’s fingers, flushed all the way down his chest, hair plastered to his damp forehead.

 

        “You want me to fuck you, Yuuri?”

 

        “Victor, you...idiot… _yes_ …”

 

        “Is that any way to talk…” Victor pulled his fingers out abruptly, grabbed Yuuri by the hips, and yanked him flush up to his thighs. He leaned over to reach for the lube, dipping down so that their lips almost brushed. Yuuri strained up for contact, just as he thought he would.

 

       “...to your _boyfriend?"_ Victor snatched up the lube bottle and smirked as he pulled away.

 

       “Sorry, _darling_.” Yuuri purred, and wiggled his hips against Victor as he lubed himself.

 

        If Yuuri had had his way, he would be riding Victor to within an inch of his life. They had done it like that the last time, the night before Victor left for Russia. Victor had fond memories of the way Yuuri looked as he sank down on him, the way his thighs trembled.

 

        But it was Victor’s birthday.

 

        He moved to cup Yuuri’s head, kissed, and slid into him in one even motion. Yuuri moaned, muted, into his mouth. He wrapped his arms around Victor’s neck as they set a rhythm. It’s what Victor wanted, what he had wanted since they had embraced at the arrivals gate that morning. Yuuri’s soft pants into his mouth, their slick foreheads touching, whispering nonsense to one another.

 

        He realized that Yuuri was crying. He had cried the first time Victor had been in him, and a few times besides that. He had pleaded, _please, keep going, it’s so good, please._

 

        Victor propped himself up on his elbow and reached between them, grasped Yuuri’s straining cock. Yuuri nearly yelped, _"Ah!”_

        Victor quickened the pace. He had to see Yuuri come, he needed it more than anything in the world. Yuuri threw his head back and sobbed, clutching his shoulders so hard Victor was sure he was going to leave marks. Victor thought he could come just watching Yuuri writhe beneath him.

 

        “Vic...Vic...please...I’m going to…”

 

        “Come for me, Yuuri, please come for me…”

 

        Hours later, after they had showered, and kissed, and lay on the bed with wet hair, and kissed some more, and let the dog bound onto the bed and kiss both of them, Victor thought to himself, _maybe he was going mad._ Surely, Yuuri was a dream. Surely, he would wake up tomorrow and the rings, Hasetsu, his arm around Yuuri as the cameras blinded them both, the banquet where they met, all of it would be his brain’s last swansong before finally going mad.

 

        He was fine with living in this precious dream, though.

**Author's Note:**

> My Secret Satan 2018 gift for weissschnee (Jazz)!!! SO SORRY FOR THE LATENESS. I hope you like sad, but also kinda happy, but also kinda sad storeez. My first Victuuri, this actually made me feel motivated to write more in the future.


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